The Maiden in the Tower
by Ramzes
Summary: The Tower of Joy was such for the prince who named it. But what about the maiden who dwelled in it? WARNING: Not a beautiful love story. Rhaegar/Lyanna shippers would better stay away. Triggers for postpartum depression.
1. Chapter 1

**The Maiden in the Tower**

"Come with me."

Grey eyes met the Crown Prince's purple ones in utter confusion. Behind her, her guards started muttering restlessly.

"Where?"

"Some place far away."

The confusion in those grey orbs grew deeper. "Far away? But I am on my way to my brother's wedding. They are expecting me…"

"They can do without you."

Something in his voice made Lyanna Stark grow uneasy. There was some impatience that she could not understand – and she disliked things that she did not understand. Her apprehension only grew when Ser Arthur Dayne moved his horse to stand between her and her companions. She tried to read the Prince's expression but the position of the sun only cast him in shadow, obscuring his features.

"What's going on here?" she asked imperiously, trying to sound as confident as her lord father when dispensing justice. "I mean, I am deeply honoured by the fact that you stopped to meet me, Your Grace, but I really have no time to waste."

"Lyanna," Rhaegar Targaryen said and despite everything, the tone of his voice stirred memories of the time she had felt the most beautiful lady in the entire realm, with his crown on her head and her heart beating wildly as he led her into the dance. "We have to talk."

"What for?" she asked guardedly. In the matter of minutes, her feelings changed again and she looked covertly at the road ahead, hoping to see Brandon and his party, some other lord headed for Riverrun for the wedding, anyone who could interrupt the intimacy Rhaegar was forcing on her and she did not feel comfortable with. But the white sun burned ever so mercilessly, the trees were brown with scorch, and the white road remained ever so empty.

"Come with me," Rhaegar said again, coming closer and reaching for her hands. Lyanna drew hers back. "You once told me you wanted a choice, didn't you? I never had a choice in anything. I want to choose you now."

The passion in his voice scared her, yet it was the same voice and tone she had listened to in awed delight after he unmasked her at Harrenhall. There, it had sounded so alluring and romantic, in the wood, against the clear water of the silver lake, with only the birds and small animals keeping them company; here, in the broad daylight, without the excitement of the tournament and her own hurt pride, it only sounded… ridiculous. He wanted to choose her? Who was _stopping_ him? No one could and should order another's heart. Why did he need to declare it now? He had made it clear at Harrenhall. It had only brought whispers and unwanted attention to her. She had managed to calm Brandon and Robert down but she doubted she could do it again if Rhaegar kept going with those gallant and insulting gestures of his. How was she expected to start her life with Robert if she became an object of rumours for a second time around? And then, another thought, just as dismaying, came to her. "I've heard that Princess Elia has given us an heir," she said, formally. "I am overjoyed, Your Grace."

Something softened in his eyes. "So am I," he said. "Elia did her duty by this realm admirably."

_And you're being less than admirable_, Lyanna thought. She had never given a thought of the Dornish princess before but now, with the woman's husband wanting to choose her – whatever that meant – in the wake of the Princess almost dying giving him his heir, she suddenly pitied Elia Martell. _Robert will never do this to me, ever_, she thought, suddenly feeling a lot more forgiving of the young man who had disappointed her so. She had been ready to love him – how could she not? He was every maiden's dream. But hearing about that bastard girl of his, the bastard he had fathered while already being betrothed to her had hurt her deeply. And seeing him wink at that pretty serving wench had added salt to the wound. But for all of this, he was at least a man who would care for his wife's dignity. What kind of man this prince was, gallivanting around and having the nerve to choose another after the ordeal his princess had _just_ gone through?

"Lyanna," he said again and all of a sudden, she disliked this intimate address. Even Robert was not allowed to call her that and wouldn't be until their wedding day. "Elia was never my choice. You are the first thing I choose for myself. Choose me."

Fear screamed through her. The purple eyes she had once gazed at in rapture now looked steely, intent on something that she could not see, fill with passion she could not reciprocate. It was so strange. After Harrenhall, she had spent months dreaming about him saying those words to her, yet now that he was in front of her, she only longed for him to be gone. She wanted the solidity of Winterfell, the comfort of her own world, the certainty of the steady feeling of the one who would not make grand gestures for her – but who would not demand the impossible from her either. Choose him? What did he expect? That she'd shirk her duty, cancel her wedding, become the mistress of a man who was as fickle as the south winds?

"My lady," the head of her guard said. Lyanna looked at him and almost rose in the saddle when she saw that Ser Oswell Whent had now joined his sword brother in barring her men's path to her. "We have to go."

"Yes, Ser Idval," she agreed and looked at Rhaegar. "I can't choose you," she said softly. "I am truly sorry. But what happened at Harrenhall happened then. My choice is with my betrothed and my honour. I cannot leave with you. And I don't want to."

Something shifted behind his eyes. Now, Lyanna's fear turned into a full-blown terror. She knew what would follow even before he said, "Lyanna, I fear the choice has already been made for us."

* * *

He did not force himself on her. Lyanna was a creature of honesty and she could not lie to herself and say that he did. He was simply there – every night and every day, until she became used to him. Not fond of him but used to him anyway. _I'll never become fond of him, never_, she often swore and yet the days went by and nothing happened – at least nothing that she had been apprised of – and he was the only one she had any contact with. Most of the men who had assisted him with her abduction – the men who had killed her own guards – were too lowborn to socialize with her and while Oswell Whent was known for his dark humour, even he seemed to find the situation unpalatable and did his best to stay away from her. Once, she approached Arthur Dayne in a moment he stood at the roof of that damned tower, staring at the mountains with love and longing. _His family seat is near_, Lyanna thought. His torment was obvious, although she doubted it had much to do with her situation. She had felt his silent disapproval at Harrenhall. _She got what she bargained for_, he was probably thinking. _She was asking for it, trying to steal the Prince from Elia._ Lyanna didn't even care how unfair it was. If she could make use of his remorse, she would do so.

"Ser Arthur," she said and the young knight startled and turned to look at her. "You were Princess Elia's man before you became Rhaegar's, were you not?"

The hateful look he shot her told her what the answer was. So that was where his regrets lay. It was good to possess this knowledge.

"Don't you want to end this situation for her? She's probably being humiliated over it right now, as we talk."

"As if you care…" he spat before getting a grip over himself.

Lyanna's hope blossomed… only to be crushed when Rhaegar joined them, his face set.

She was never allowed to stay alone with Arthur Dayne again.

So that only left Rhaegar.

He brought her presents. He spoke to her of love. It was hard not to listen to someone who said that they loved her. Was he sincere?

She tried to remember her duty, yet Robert's face faded mercilessly in the debilitating heat of this strange land, so different from her own. She remembered blue eyes but the ones following her every step were purple. Her hatred was mellowed against her will by the thought that Rhaegar had done it out of love for her. Deep inside, she knew it was desperation getting hold of her but she was powerless to do anything to prevent it. Robert didn't know where she was. Her father didn't know. Her brothers. Every day, she became a little more reconciled with the notion that she would spend her entire life here, in this hated Dorne, with the man who shadowed her every move. Dull indifference pervaded every corner of her soul in the absence of anything happening, the lack of any meaningful contact save the Prince. One day, she realized that she had lost track of how long she had been here. And in that same day,with no impulse and no joy, she yielded to Rhaegar Targaryen.

_I love him_, she thought two months later, feeling his hand over her flat belly. He behaved as if he already anticipating the secret she still hadn't told him. Something in his feverish belief in this prophecy of his scared her. Not for a moment did she believe that the child she would give him would be… what he expected. And she didn't think she could bear the look on his face when he realized he'd get his third head soon.

He was a little mad, of course, as many Targaryens were. And he was far from being the perfect prince she had so foolishly believed she had fallen in love with. But he was her best chance to make it out of this relatively unscathed. He was her babe's father. She had to love him. She had to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you, peacock33, for the thoughtful review.**

_The Maiden in the Tower_

Chapter 2

"I will return soon."

"You don't need to," Lyanna replied, cold as ice. "How many times should I tell you that you can simply send someone to collect the dragonspawn as soon as it is born? I don't want to see you ever again."

Rhaegar sighed. There were deep bruises under his purple eyes, he looked gaunt, aged in years in the week since Ser Gerold Hightower had found them. Lyanna's heart soared in deep, vindictive joy.

"I wish you could see reason," he said. "No one could have foreseen that your father and brother…"

The dying sun cast his silhouette in a pool of golden light. Behind him, through the window, Lyanna could see the proud silhouette of the mountains Dornishmen called Red. She had always thought them green but they now looked truly red – red as blood…

Nausea rose in her the way it usually did in the morning. She struggled to keep it down, couldn't bear the thought of him rushing at her side, ridiculously concerned about his third head of the dragon. The care he'd been trying to envelop her in since they heard the grievous news was now repellent to her. If he came closer, she might actually throw up.

"No one could have foreseen, you say?" she asked bitingly once she felt it was safe to open her mouth. "I thought you were trying to depose your father because you knew he was mad?"

The expression on his face made her laugh in triumph. She had won this small victory, at least. He had not succeeded in keeping her as unaware of his plans and actions as he would have liked. "What?" she asked. "You thought that I didn't have ears to hear with? I know that you feared what would happen to the Seven Kingdoms if you let your father stay in charge, yet you took me here without caring… You must have known!"

"I didn't!" he shouted back, losing his self-possession for the first time since she first met him. "Do you think I would have left my wife and children in his hands if I had known?"

For a moment, Lyanna stared at him uncomprehending, and then her own uncomprehension surprised her. When talking of his own life, he always spoke of his prophecy and his heads of the dragon. Somehow, in the cursed magic of those few months, she had come to forget that those heads were actual children. His children. Who had a mother, of course. Rhaegar's wife. All of a sudden, her own circumstances became foul for her. How, precisely, had Rhaegar planned on taking her to wife? No septon would agree to officiate at such a ceremony – no one had done it for Maegor the Cruel! And how would have they proceeded after? Now, with the veil finally thorn from her eyes, she saw reality glaringly clear. No one would ever accept her as his wife, even if she wed him – which she would never do, not now. In the eyes of the realm, she'd be nothing but a crowned paramour. Now, all of a sudden, she realized that this was how Rhaegar himself viewed her – his glorified vessel for bringing the third head on, not so different from Elia Martell whom he at least considered his wife. For all his ramblings about prophecies, he had never told Lyanna about his actual political plans and how he intended to bring the three heads of the dragon up. He might admire her spirit and sense of justice… but he did not perceive her as his partner and confidant, not the way he perceived Princess Elia. _He wants to have it all_, she thought, horrified anew. _Love with me and friendship and help from his wife_. Well, his chances of receiving love from her had died along with her father and Brandon; as to Elia Martell, Lyanna very much doubted that he'd find his wife's feelings still the same. _There is something for the two of us to bond over_, she thought.

Rhaegar gave her a stunned look and she realized that he was baffled by the smile on her lips. _He probably wonders whether I have gone mad_, she thought. _Mad with grief_. In that terrible first night, she had hurled herself at him, shouting curses and trying to get to his sword, vowing to hate him forever and kill the dragonspawn he had burdened her with. Ever since, he had been treating her with unfailing watchful attentiveness – which infuriated her even more. He probably treated his damned father the same way.

"Wouldn't you?" she wondered aloud, realizing for the first time that Rhaegar was ready to sacrifice anything, his children's lives included, for the prophecy reigning over his life. For a moment, she felt a flickering pity for the dragonspawn. Elia Martell's children at least had a mother who loved them, probably; Lyanna's child would have one who hated him – it had to be a boy. What bedtime stories would Old Nan tell this boy if she could? How his grandfather had killed his other grandfather and uncle in such an abominable way while his mother whiled months away in romantic oblivion in the ugliest corner of the realm? She was now angry at the babe, as well, just as she was furious with Rhaegar. Wasn't this child Rhaegar's? Would he have stopped her, taken her, and kept her if not for this child? Would he have given her another thought if he didn't think that her health would let her give him his Visenya without a problem? How could he think that a child born of such an unholy union – marked with her men's blood, no less! – could be a savior against anything?

He made a step forward, his hand raised, as if he wanted to strike her. Instinctively, Lyanna made a step backward and felt fear overtaking her completely. It was a different fear than the one that had seized her at the moment he had seized her horse's reins. He had never been physically violent toward her and the realization that she was dependable on him for the very thread of her life hit her like a warhammer. Still, she summoned her entire courage and smiled at him. "What now?" she asked. "Are you going to finish me off like your father did mine?"

Slowly, with effort, Rhaegar brought his hand down. His face changed, the horror of what he had almost done evident in his sunken features. "I am sorry, my lady," he said. "Take care. Do your duty as I am doing mine."

"Duty!" Lyanna spat. "Killing my remaining brothers and my betrothed, that's what you perceive as your duty."

She was suddenly tired, so very tired. All she wanted was to slump on the low bed, covered with golden-red furs of wild beasts in the Dornish manner where before she had been plunged into her unexplainable love and passion for this man, go to sleep and think of Winterfell, of her father and Brandon, of Ned's smile and Ben's wit, forget that there had been a tourney at Harrenhall that she should not have attended and a prince whom she should not have met.

Rhaegar took his time to answer. Later, when she had had the time to relive everything a thousand times, she would realize that he did not cherish the thought of it, that it had not been his plan, that he abhorred bloodshed, just not enough to give up… if he could which, of course, was impossible. And she would not care then, just like she did not care now.

"I'll do my best to spare your brothers, Lyanna," the Prince finally promised.

Her rage flamed anew, cold fire that stripped her of the last remnants of the connection she had forced herself to build because of the child. Even after his schemes had failed so grievously, he still didn't think he might end up as the one defeated. He would spare Ned and Benjen as if they had done something, committed an offense when the blame lay solely with his mad father – and himself, for taking her this way.

_Not right_, a tiny voice whispered insidiously in the back of her head. _Not quite. You could have tried harder. _You could have run away or die trying. She tried to chase it away but it returned, harsh, persistent. Lyanna knew that she could not have done anything but it didn't feel like it. And she could not chase away the blame for overstepping her boundaries, for flirting with Rhaegar at Harrenhall, for not dying at his attempt to seize her, preferring death to dishonour… and the most terrible fear of all, that she might have been in Rhaegar's arms the moment her father and brother had met their untimely and cruel death.

As her father had been burning alive, as Brandon had been suffocating himself trying to save him, she might have been in Rhaegar's arms, beside herself with love and passion. Had she started loving him by then? She could not keep living if she had. And she could never imagine making love again because in her mind, the act was irreversibly linked with death and agony, their agony.

"And what about Robert?" she asked, surprising herself. It wasn't that she cared about her betrothed but some morbid curiosity pushed her on, made her see just how far Rhaegar had gone in his delusion.

He sighed. "From what I've heard, he'll have to die. The realm will never be at peace while he lives. I'll call him to a single combat and put an end to this horror."

It was just the answer Lyanna expected but still she laughed. "Robert won't die. And if you are fool enough to meet him in a single combat, he'll cut you to tiny pieces!"

Their eyes clashed in a war of hate on her part, a plea for understanding on his. Taken by the impulse of her emotion, Lyanna went on. "He'll kill you… and then he'll proceed to King's Landing. That will be the end of your dynasty, Rhaegar, the end of your dragonspawn. Your Prince Who Was Promised will never rule this land. He'll never see another day again. And then Robert will find me and help me rip this thing from my womb before it's grown enough to live on its own. Your dreams of a great heritage will never come to fruition, Rhaegar Targaryen and his heads of the dragon will be nothing but dust in the wind…"

Everything was wrong, everything had gone so tangled. She had not been supposed to hate him. She had been supposed to give him the love and dreams he had craved for. The girl Elia could not provide him with. She should have been the gentlest mother his third child could have… How could he have miscalculated so?

Silently, he started for the door. Everything was ready for his departure. Before he closed the door, he turned back, hoping to see a hint of a smile, a tear, something to prove that the joy of the last months had been. Instead, all he got was a pale hand, a hand raised in a gesture of imprecation.

Rhaegar Targaryen left for King's Landing and Lyanna Stark fell on her bed, suddenly sapped of all her energy.


	3. Chapter 3

**You thought I'd never finish this story, didn't you? I'll tell you a secret: at one point, so did I. Sorry for the long delay, I hope this compensates.**

_The Maiden in the Tower_

Chapter 3

"The maester and wetnurse will arrive any day now."

Lyanna looked up from her embroidery, surprised, and immediately pricked her finger. To her amazement, the unknown occupation of sewing was somewhat soothing – but it inevitably led to pricked fingers and blood smearing on the fabric. She didn't mind it. What was a bloodied fabric compared to a heart that bled? It was even comforting.

"I haven't asked for either."

Ser Arthur didn't quite sigh but he did look somewhat impatient. "The Prince hasn't sent word and your time gets near. Surely you wouldn't want to give birth alone, without any help whatsoever?"

Lyanna smiled sweetly. "Why, Ser, I'm sure you'll make a great midwife," she said and took delight in his startled face. "And since when have my wishes started to matter?" she asked acidly but of course, she knew she wasn't being quite fair. The three Kingsguard were her gaolers but they could be well away for all the change that would make. She didn't want to leave the tower. Where could she go, this heavy with child?

She didn't care about being fair, though. No one had been fair to her father or Brandon, had they?

Now, she remembered the men mentioning something about finding a maester to attend her. She hadn't paid them any mind. Who in Dorne would send a maester to her? Dornishmen would rather smother her babe in his cradle than helping it. Even this one wished nothing good to her or hers. Oh he'd do his duty, guard her and everything. He'd even do all he could do to help her stay alive and well – all the while hoping that he'd fail.

Curiosity moved her to ask, "Where did you find them? Did you have to send someone all the way to the Reach to find someone ready to attend me? Or perhaps you didn't tell them who they were supposed to help?"

"Not the Reach," Ser Arthur replied. "Starfall. No matter what, my goodsister would not refuse help to a lady in your plight."

Here it was again! A lady in plight! Lyanna had loved such romantic tales and abhorred the possibility that it could happen to her, yet at the end it had. She had _loved_ the moment of the trap snapping around her and the thought of that made her reel with shame and anger.

"You look so certain," she said. Honestly, she cared little about getting help or not, dying or not. The embrace of grave looked like mercy. But the feeling of responsibility wouldn't let her reject the help, should it arrive. As little love as she held for the dragonspawn, he was her babe as well as Rhaegar's. She had taken part in his conception readily. No one could take something and not pay. And no one should.

He opened his mouth to say something when the young handmaiden came running.

"My lady!" she gasped. "Ser! There is a group arriving…"

Ser Arthur and Lyanna didn't look at each other but they headed down the hall immediately.

"Oh do take this down," Ser Arthur snapped when Ser Oswell kept his sword pointed at the only man who looked like a warrior in the group of five that stopped their horses in the small paved yard. Lyanna saw the pallor of the man, the fresh scar cutting his face from jaw to forehead and disappearing into his hair and felt that she would be sick. The edge of the scar had slit some of the muscles of his mouth so it was now tugged down to one side, turning his face into a repellant mummer's mask.

The man snorted. "I don't need your protection, little brother. In fact, I am quite astounded that you didn't raise Dawn against me."

Lyanna gasped and squinted closer. At second look, she realized that the newcomer could have been – had been – a handsome man. Black-haired, violet-eyed, just like his sister Ashara. It was just that the scar destroyed the refinement of his features so thoroughly that all handsomeness was lost, etched in pale shades, barely noticeable unless one stared hard. And it was… a fresh scar. Her heart went to her throat.

Ser Arthur's face went as pale as his brother's. "I didn't ask you to come, Arel. Why did you?"

The other Dayne snorted again. "Why do you think I did? There have been rumours for the last few days and when your man came… I didn't believe what people said. I didn't want to believe it. I had to come in person and see for myself." He paused to take breath and Lyanna realized that talking was hard for him – not only because of the emotion. "It's true, though. You did have the temerity of bringing her here." His voice was calm, yet somehow managed to express the utter derision to both Ser Arthur and Lyanna.

Ser Gerold's head went to his sword and Ser Arthur snapped, "No, I said! He fought for the Prince better than any of us, it seems."

Lyanna couldn't utter a word. So she was right. There had been a battle…

Lord Dayne laughed. "I wouldn't give your Prince a rusty spear, let alone follow him in battle. It was for Elia that Dorne fought. Remember her? The one who was supposedly the lady of your heart before you threw her away for glory and this fine white cloak."

"My lady?" a woman asked softly and Lyanna startled. She hadn't noticed her approach. The Dornishwoman was about fifteen years older than her, broad-faced and broad-chested, with the air of calm competence as she looked Lyanna over. She was holding a babe in her arms, a babe that gave lusty cries. "Should we go to your chambers? You shouldn't be standing…"

Lyanna ignored her, her entire being focused on what Lord Dayne would say.

"What happened?" Ser Arthur finally asked because it was clear that no one else would, although they all wanted to know, desperately.

"Rhaegar Targaryen is dead," Arel Dayne said bluntly and Lyanna felt a thrill of deep, vindictive joy mingling with grief that surprised her. "The two armies met at the Trident where your Prince lost his life and most of his army, Prince Lewyn among them. Then, the rebels marched to King's Landing where they took the city in King Robert Baratheon's name." He paused. "Your king is dead. Unless you already consider yourselves King Viserys' Kingsguard, I guess.. He's fled to Dragonstone..."

"What of Aegon?" Ser Arthur asked sharply. "What of Elia? They must have been sent to Dragonstone as well, Rhaegar said…"

The man's mouth twisted in a sickening smile of anger, despair, and ugliness. "Rhaegar said many things to many people, it seems," he said. "And failed to act on them. Princess Elia and her children were left in King's Landing where Tywin Lannister's men found them at sacking the city." He paused. "Princess Rhaenys was stabbed over fifty times. A huge bear of man broke Prince Aegon's skull against the wall before he advanced on Elia…"

"That's enough!"

Ser Arthur's voice didn't even resemble a human one. He advanced on his brother with his fists raised but the small fat maester placed himself determinedly between the two of them.

"Ser Arthur!" he said sharply. "My lord barely managed to emerge from this battle with his life. He isn't ready to face a man in his prime. In fact, he's in no state to do anything but rest. Even this ride was too much for him."

Lord Dayne didn't look pleased with this defense. "Know your place, maester," he snapped. "You were brought here to attend the girl, so attend her."

Suddenly taking in all that she had heard, Lyanna felt her arms fall limply against her sides. Rhaegar was dead – and despite everything, she had loved him a little, enough to feel a twinge of loss

_Your Prince Who Was Promised will never rule this land. He'll never see another day again._

Her fingers dug into the fabric of her Dornish robe – as much as she disdained this attire, lately it had been the only outfit able to accommodate her growing belly and keep her somewhat cool. Sweat started pouring off her, down her back and chest, as if it had started raining.

But no, she had never meant those words. Not truly. She had thought it at the moment, so strong had been her wish to hurt Rhaegar. But she had never wished for it to come to pass. Gods, those little children…

With an icy chill of certainty, Lyanna realized that the fate the child in her womb would face would be no better – and she didn't want it, dragonspawn or not. But it was too late to move. Each step cost her an effort. Staying awake was an effort. She could not run from the prison of her own body that imprisoned her in this wretched tower.

She could only wait for fate to arrive.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, you were a great help in nudging me along!**

_The Maiden in the Tower_

Chapter 4

"Do you want to hold him, my lady?"

Lyanna shook her head, although all the maester and the two women perceived was a barely noticeable stirring of her head. Wylla brought the babe over to her, a smile lighting her face and turning her almost into a beauty; with her mind free of this debilitating pain for the first time in what felt like years, Lyanna realized that the wetnurse thought the moment a joyful one. She still thought Lyanna was in the clutches of pain robbing her of reasoning but she would come around as soon as she saw her child. She was wrong. Lyanna's mind was fully recovered. And she didn't feel a lick of maternal joy. But she looked at the babe – she was a little curious.

The shock robbed her of breath. He looked more of a Stark than Rhaegar's spawn had the right to look! Dark hair, eyes that were so cruelly grey even at this young age… He looked like a son of Brandon's might have looked like had he had the time to father one. He looked like a son of Ned's might look like if Ned was still alive and had the time to do so!

"He looks so much like you, my lady," Wylla said proudly, as if she was the one who had barely survived being lost beyond the Wall!

Lyanna didn't say anything but when the wetnurse tried to place the newborn in her arms, her whole body recoiled. "No," she breathed.

It was nothing like what she had been told. Nothing! Now, she was as furious with Old Nan and the other women in Winterfell as she was with Rhaegar. They had lied to her just like he had. They had assured her that while pain in childbirth was agonizing, the thought of a woman's babe would give her the strength to keep going. Why hadn't she asked herself why the thought of her mother's last babe hadn't given Lyarra Stark enough strength to pull it through? The thought of her babe. Ha! Lyanna had actually forgotten that she was _having_ a babe, all she had been able to perceive was _pain_. She had been supposed to heal immediately as soon as she first saw her babe's face – well, what, then, was this dull sensation between her legs? She still felt as if she had been torn apart.

In the month that had passed after the news from King's Landing arrived, she had reassured herself remembering this girl from the dairies in Winterfell. Everyone knew how her child had come to be. An outlaw had been beheaded for this and Lyanna had not felt an ounce of mercy when her father had brought Ice upon the man's neck. The girl had actually laughed… and yet a year later she had been the fondest mother of all.

It wasn't so with Lyanna. The small creature in Wylla's arms touched something in her heart but this thin thread was almost broken by shame and despair, and the feeling that he was stealing something that did not belong to him. This child of horror shouldn't look like a Stark. It was not right!

_Are you happy now, Rhaegar_, she thought furiously. _Is this the fate you wanted for your third head of the dragon?_

"Give him to me," she finally said, indifferent to the pain now, indifferent to the heat that was rising in her body, indifferent to the babe's mewling. Instinct made her put him to the breast, though, and then she realized that at least one of the things she had been told was true – new mothers often had no milk immediately after birth. He spit the nipple and wailed angrily.

"Take him away," she whispered, dull relief overcoming her. She would not have anything to do with him. He didn't need her to.

* * *

By now, she was so used to the smell of dead roses and sickness that she had stopped perceiving it. But when Ser Gerold entered, she realized how strong it might be, just by the look of his face.

"How are you feeling, my lady?" he asked, looking at his feet.

"Like a captive," Lyanna answered. She no longer had the strength to summon even an ounce of malice.

He sighed. "When you get better, we'll leave."

She reached for the cup on the coffer at her bedside. It was not filled to the brim – she was increasingly becoming so weak that she could no longer handle this much liquid safely.

"It doesn't change anything to _me_," she said. "Leave now. Take him to safety. At the moment, I am only a burden. You're endangering him by staying here. The rebels might come any moment now."

"We cannot leave you here."

Rhaegar and his orders? Their misplaced sense of knightly virtues? Lyanna couldn't remember the explanation Ser Arthur had repeated for her earlier today… or was it yesterday? But it didn't change a thing. She was as powerless as those first days when they had taken her, her reasoning unheard, her wishes ignored, her will bent. She wanted them to take her babe to safety. There was no use to wait for her to recover. She couldn't bear the thought of him falling into the rebels' hands and yet she did not want him in her life. He was the symbol of all wrongs she had done and endured, all the horrors that plagued her still. It was so very unfair to put him in danger just so they could wait for the recovery of a mother who didn't feel connected to him. Who didn't want him.

"You must leave me here," she insisted with the last remnants of her wakefulness. Sleep was encroaching near and she was fighting it, fearing it and longing for it. It could bring her memories of golden days long gone – or the memories of days from this past year. Worse yet, images from this past year, images of what must have been, far, far away. "Take him and go. Release me!"

"You aren't a captive, you're…"

But she couldn't hear what she was because at this moment, fever overcame her again.

* * *

"Help me rise."

The handmaiden gave her a look of horror. "My lady, you shouldn't!"

"Help me rise, girl!"

Lyanna's harsh, brittle, rasping voice somehow came out with all of Rickard Stark's implacable will. The handmaiden bit her lip and reached over, then screamed when Lyanna placed her feet on the floor and rose slowly, only to topple over her companion immediately.

"Here, my lady… let me help you lie back…"

Wylla rushed in and gasped at the sight of Lyanna. Together, the two women settled her back in bed but when the wetnurse reached for the cover, Lyanna waved her off with a thin hand. "Go there! Tell me what's going on!"

She strained with all her might to keep herself alive and well so she could pray to the Old Gods she had so insulted. She, not Ned. He didn't deserve what those men, those knights would do to him. _Please! Please have mercy._

"How many people are there?" she whispered.

"Seven, my lady."

A piercing shriek smashed against the wall, reverberating all over the old tower and making it shake. At least, Lyanna thought so, In fact, the scream remained forever frozen in her throat, barely moving her lips. It was almost a sigh, only fainter. _That's the end for Ned_, she thought before darkness rose against her and yet each time she clawed her way out of it, the two women told her that Ned was still alive. Still fighting. Sweet relief would descend upon her and then be drowned in despair as she was told of yet another man not in white who had fallen. The women did not know their names, of course, and Lyanna might not know any of them, but that didn't matter. They were her people. They had come here for her. For Ned. For loyalty. She wished that she could be the one who died instead of them. That she'd die before she faced Ned or any of them. Cold wrapped long gaunt fingers around her. It was not the refreshing cold of Winterfell. This one lulled her to unconsciousness, lack of knowledge what was going on beyond the window and she fought it with the same determination that she had fought those three knights at Harrenhall.

"Your brother is coming!"

Wylla's voice snatched her away from the shame, and pain, and the sea of white snow waiting to embrace her and keep her forever.

"He's coming! He's covered in blood! He's so scary…"

Suddenly, that was the funniest thing Lyanna had ever heard. Ned scary! Sweet Ned! She tried to laugh – and then she heard the babe wailing again.

All of a sudden, she realized that Ned _might_ be scary. She hadn't seen him in a year – a year that had changed her. How had it changed _him_? Sometimes, she hated the babe. How could _he_ not hate the newborn when he saw him?

"Give me the roses," she said urgently.

The two women stared at her, confused. The laurel Rhaegar had once given her was lying in a coffer, unlooked and left there to rot because Lyanna couldn't bear to look at it anymore and she had exhausted all of her rage at Rhaegar himself.

As they scrambled to obey, Lyanna lay back. She had always lived her life in truth, yet now she had to die in a lie – she who had always thought a lie was beneath her. The wails of the babe intensified and Wylla rose to look at him. "The roses!" Lyanna snapped and the memory of that mismatched armour she had once donned to stand for what was good and right appeared before her a moment before the door opened.

* * *

**The End**

**A.N. In case you're wondering: no, Lyanna doesn't hate Jon. She still believes what she's been told – that a mother's love always comes instantly after the birth and is stronger than anything. She's still sixteen and unaware that sometimes, love isn't so much about what you **_**feel**_** but about what you **_**do**_**. She might feel conflicted about her baby but at the end, she tried to feed him, she tried to send him away with the Kingsguard because she thought it was best for him, she rewrote her own story to give him the best chances with Ned. If that's not love, I don't know what it is. The rest would have come with time. She simply didn't have that time.  
**


End file.
